Chapter 1 - Ruby
The overhead lights in the casino floor manager's office buzz like angry wasps, and I'm trying not to take it as an omen.
"Sign here, here, and initial here." The woman, Donna, according to her name tag, slides a stack of papers across the desk without looking up from her computer screen. Her nails are long, airbrushed with tiny skulls, and they click against the keyboard.
I sign where she indicates, my hand cramping slightly. Ruby Lane. Ruby Lane. Ruby Lane. Each signature feels like I'm promising something I'm not sure I can deliver.
"Uniform's a black tank top, black pants or shorts, comfortable shoes," Donna continues in a monotone that suggests she's given this speech a thousand times. "You provide your own. We provide the apron, that's got the logo. Tips are yours, but you pool them with the other waitresses at the end of the night and split even. Shifts are eight hours. You get one fifteen-minute break and one thirty-minute meal break. Don't take them at the same time as another girl. Work it out amongst yourselves."
"Okay." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
Donna finally looks up, her eyes, lined in thick black wings that could cut glass, assessing me with the kind of judgment only other women can deliver. "You ever worked a casino floor before?"
"No, but I've waitressed. I'm a fast learner."
"You'll need to be." She stands, and I follow suit. She's shorter than me but carries herself like she's six feet tall. "Players get handsy sometimes. You shut it down polite but firm. If they don't listen, you get Stone or one of the other brothers. Don't try to handle it yourself. We clear?"
Brothers. That's what they call the MC members. I've seen exactly three of them since I walked in twenty minutes ago, and each one looked like he could bench-press my car.
"We're clear."
"Good." Donna comes around the desk, gesturing for me to follow her. "Thursday night's steady but not slammed. Good night for you to learn the floor. Weekend nights are chaos. You'll want to pace yourself. Stay hydrated, eat on your breaks, wear comfortable shoes."
We walk through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarette smoke and industrial cleaner. The bass from the casino floor thrums through the walls, punctuated by the distant ringing of slot machines. My stomach twists itself into knots.
I need this job.
Marcus's face flashes through my mind: gap-toothed smile, wild curls that mirror my own, those big brown eyes that trust me to keep him safe. He's at the motel right now with Mrs. Amber from the room next door, a grandmother type who accepted twenty of my last thirty dollars to watch him for the evening. Twenty dollars I can't really spare but have no choice but to spend.
Everything's a catch-22 lately. Need money to pay for childcare so I can work to make money to pay for childcare.
"You'll start on the main floor," Donna says, pushing through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. "Stay away from the high roller tables in the back unless specifically assigned. Those are handled by senior girls only."
The casino floor opens up before us, and it's overwhelming in the way only Vegas can be. Flashing lights, dinging machines, the thick haze of cigarette smoke despite the supposed ventilation system. People crowd around tables and slot machines, theirfaces painted with hope or desperation or the blank expression of addiction.
I've never been comfortable in places like this. Too loud. Too bright. Too much of everything.
"That's the main bar." Donna points to a massive circular bar at the center of the floor, bottles of liquor glittering like jewels behind it. "Miguel's your main bartender. He's quick. Call your orders clear and tip him out at the end of the night. At least ten percent of what you make."
I nod, trying to memorize everything, knowing I'll probably forget half of it the moment she walks away.
"Waitress station's here." She shows me a small alcove tucked beside the bar, stocked with trays, napkins, and order pads. "You write down table numbers with orders. Miguel fills them. You deliver. Simple."
Simple. Right.
"Your section tonight is tables twelve through twenty-four. That's this whole side." She gestures to roughly a third of the casino floor. "Jamie and Liz have the other sections. They've both been here a while. They'll help you out if you ask nice."
We weave through the tables, and I try to count them, to memorize the layout. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. The numbers are small, printed on discreet gold plates attached to each table's edge.
"House rules," Donna says, stopping near a craps table where a group of men are cheering over a roll. "Don't drink on shift. Don't gamble. Ever, even on your days off. Don't date the players. Don't steal. Don't start drama." She looks at me pointedly. "And don't fuck with the brothers. They own thisplace. You see a cut"—she means the leather vests with the Steel Sinners patches—"you show respect. Got it?"
"Got it."
Something in my tone must satisfy her because she nods. "You start in ten. Get changed. Lockers are in the back. Use number forty-seven. Combination's written inside your employee folder."
She hands me a thin folder I hadn't realized she was carrying, along with a black apron embroidered with the Steel Sinners logo. It's surprisingly heavy, the material thick and well-made.
"Thanks," I manage.
